


Phantom Limbs

by YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Being an adult sucks, Boys Being Cute, Boys In Love, Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, Sleepy Cuddles, Slice of Life, boys being LONELY :(, college bros, connor works at a coffee shop, evan is an online beta-reader/editor, it's not angst i promise, soft connor, some minor references to some of my other works but not necessary to have read them, these tags make it sound way angstier than it actually is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22412641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: Evan grimaces, letting his aching eyes slide over the absolute mess of a paragraph once more, trying to determine the best points to break up the sentence. Or maybe it would be quicker to just rewrite the whole damn thing?Evan is tired. He's so so tired.(Or: Adult life is stressful. The boys need a hug.)
Relationships: Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Comments: 48
Kudos: 213





	Phantom Limbs

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello I am happy to present to you: this completely plotless mush~
> 
> (Listen I have been DYING to start a new chapter story lately ala The Collie but do you THINK any of my current concepts lend themselves well to extended storylines? Big ol' NOPE. So. In the meantime. Here is. This.)
> 
> No TW: you are safe! <3
> 
> Tumblr: @theyellowestmustard

* * *

_ The term "phantom limb was coined by physician _ _ Silas Weir Mitchell _ _ in 8171 and it is the sensation that an _ _ amputated _ _ or missing _ _ limb _ _ is still attached approximately 80 to 100% of individuals with an _ _ amputation _ _ experence phantom sensations in their amputated limb however only a small percentage will experience painful phantom limb sensation and despite phantom limb being common in amputees it usually resolve itself within 2 to 3 years.  _

Evan casts a despairing look over his laptop screen and lets out a deep, disconsolate sigh.

Jesus fucking C _ hrist _ , Chris From Iowa, have you not heard of a fucking  _ period _ ?

Evan grimaces, letting his aching eyes slide over the absolute mess of a paragraph once more, trying to determine the best points to break up the sentence. Or maybe it would be quicker to just rewrite the whole damn thing? God, and the  _ typos _ . For one thing, Evan’s about 99% sure the term “phantom limb” was  _ not _ coined in the year 8171. 

Like, he’s  _ pretty  _ sure. 

It’s dark in the living room where Evan works, the nebulous outlines of the couch and the coffee table and the TV catching the faint, pale glow of Evan’s laptop. It’s a little chilly, too, despite the blanket wrapped around Evan’s shoulders. He goes to wrap his fingers around his mug to warm them, only to find it stone-cold and long empty. He considers making another coffee. It’s past 2am, and he really shouldn’t.

But he needs to get this done. He’s on a tight deadline, and his brain already feels muddy with exhaustion, eyes stinging like they’ve been chlorinated. Every time he blinks he could swear he can feel some sort of grit in them, like sand or broken glass, and it takes monumental effort to peel them open again. 

He gives a brisk shake of his head and forces himself to focus.

_ The term "phantom limb was coined by physician _ _ Silas Weir Mitchell _ _ in 8171 and it is the sensation that an _ _ amputated _ _ or missing _ _ limb _ _ is still attached approximately 80 to 100% of individuals with an _ _ amputation _ _ experence… _

Evan’s pretty sure Chris From Iowa didn’t look over this at all, before sending it through to Evan.

_ Fuck you, _ thinks Evan irritably.  _ Fuck you, Chris From Iowa. _

He supposes he shouldn’t complain too much. If it weren’t for strangers like Chris From Iowa, Evan probably wouldn’t have any income to support himself at college at all. Freelance editing and beta-reading pays just as decently as a part-time job, and it means Evan can, for the most part, keep his own hours. And it takes advantage of a skill he already has; he’s always been decent at writing, and has what he supposes would be a better-than-average understanding of grammar rules and style and how to correctly cite sources. It’s interesting, too, most of the time. Evan gets all sorts of things sent to him to edit; college papers and resumés and wanted advertisements and the odd short-story from a new writer trying to get something published. 

The best thing though, Evan’s favorite part, is that he doesn’t have to talk to anybody face-to-face. Just via email, where he can actually think about what to say before he says it; to rephrase and rehash and adjust, so he knows it all comes out exactly right; exactly as he means it to. A few back-and-forth emails, an hour or so editing, and then there it is, the money pops up in Evan’s PayPal account like it’s nothing. Usually it barely feels like work at all.

Except when it gets busy. When Evan gets flooded with emails, right when he’s also got a literal fuck-ton of assignments due in less than a week. 

He ought to turn some jobs down. But he needs the money.

Well. He  _ doesn’t.  _ Not  _ really _ . Connor insists that he makes enough at the coffee shop where he works part-time to cover three-quarters of the rent on their one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment, and Connor’s parents continuously offer to cover the remaining quarter. 

Honestly, Evan’s pretty sure they’d pay the whole lot if he and Connor asked them to. They’re just...they’re relieved, and overwhelmingly  _ thankful _ that Connor is okay. That Connor is alive and well and happy.

That Evan  _ makes  _ Connor happy.

And Evan has to gently remind them, sometimes, that that’s not entirely true. Of course he knows he makes Connor happy, but it’s not all on Evan like Larry and Cynthia seem to think it is.

Evan hasn’t healed Connor. Connor has worked hard,  _ so _ fucking hard, to heal  _ himself.  _ And Evan is enormously proud of him, and adores him all the more for it.

Which is why he can’t. He can’t take Connor’s money any more than he can take Connor’s parents’ money. It makes no difference than the Murphys are more well-off than Evan is; he has stubbornly insisted, and will continue to stubbornly insist, upon paying half of everything. Rent, food, utilities. With the occasional little gift for Connor thrown in for no good reason; charcoal sticks and leather bracelets and that one time he’d bought him a bunch of hair chalks as a joke, but then Connor had actually used them, smearing his long hair with pink and red and violet, and Evan had been secretly peeved because it actually looked  _ good  _ on him; of  _ course  _ it did. And Connor always tells him that he doesn’t need to do shit like that; that Evan ought to save his money, or buy something nice for himself for a change.

But Evan rarely does. Because despite Connor’s objections, there’s always that soft flush to his cheeks, that tiny, awed smile tugging on his lips, even as his brows knot together in disapproval.

And Evan  _ lives  _ for that look. 

Evan hasn’t seen that look in a while. Too long.

He hates that. Completely fucking hates it.

It’s nobody’s fault. Evan knows that, though it’s still tempting to blame himself; for not being present, for not taking the time to be with Connor enough. But he knows that for the most part, he can’t exactly help it.

This semester has just been a total nightmare, since day one.

Connor has classes on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesday afternoons.

Evan has classes on Wednesday afternoons, Thursdays and Fridays.

Connor works most weekends, when the coffee shop is the busiest with the brunch rush.

Evan does most of his editing in the evenings, when his brain is the most awake.

Which pretty much just leaves Wednesday mornings and the occasional Sunday that Connor and Evan are actually both in the apartment at the same time. And even then, that doesn’t always mean quality time together. They have due dates and exams and papers to stay on top of. Therapy appointments to squeeze in. All the little things that add up; the things that are part of being an adult. Paying the car registration and going to the dentist and voting.

It’s  _ stressful.  _ Being alive can be extremely fucking stressful, which is something Evan just. Never really anticipated, weirdly enough. Sure, he’s spent the better part of his life trapped under a thick blanket of anxiety, but anxiety and stress are  _ not  _ the same thing. 

And it seems even more stressful, even worse that they’re both like, alone. He feels like he barely sees Connor. They live under the same roof, sleep in the same bed, brush their teeth in the same bathroom, and yet Evan misses him.

So much.

He resents it more than he can say; resents the distance growing between them. Not like, emotional distance. More like the distance of time, of an ever-growing and overwhelmingly long list of responsibilities, like a wall pushing the two of them apart as Evan scrambles desperately to hold on.

Evan tries to redirect his attention back to Chris From Iowa and his terrible paper about phantom limbs. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can snuggle up in bed with Connor. Granted, he won’t actually get to talk to him, because he’s almost definitely asleep by now, but Evan will take what he can get.

Evan is tired. He’s so tired.

_ P hantom limb syndrome is is a phenomenon still not fully understood, there is sensory input indicating pain from a part of the body that is no longer attached. so like, the limb has been seperated from the patient and still causes paint  _ says Chris From Iowa, rather haltingly. 

Evan backspaces the  _ ‘t’ _ from  _ ‘pain’ _ , deletes the extra  _ ‘is’ _ , then stops. 

Pain from separation. That comes from empty space.

Pain that, logically, shouldn’t really be there; has no reason to be there.

That hits way too close to home.

Evan can’t do this anymore.

He makes the decision the second he realizes that’s it, that’s the exact feeling; he misses Connor like a lost limb, and it  _ hurts _ , and Connor is asleep just one room over, and Evan can’t do this, can’t keep staring at stupid Chris’s stupid paper because he’s so fucking tired he feels like he might cry and  _ fuck  _ his deadlines, he has a beautiful skinny sleepy boyfriend to cuddle. 

It’s practically self-care, really.

He snaps his laptop shut, not even bothering to save the meager progress he’s made on the edit, dumps his coffee mug in the sink, double-checks that the front door is locked and all the lights are off, and tiptoes quietly towards the bedroom, his bruised, lonely brain humming  _ finally, finally. _

The bedroom door is ajar, and Evan is surprised to see dull yellow light flicking through the gap. Perhaps Connor’s fallen asleep with a candle lit again. Evan tuts at him every time, chides him over and over about starting a fire. But Connor can’t fall asleep in a pitch-dark room alone, and besides Evan’s always around to blow it out so what difference does it make?

Evan gently pushes the door open.

And it’s not a lit candle, but it still warms Evan, warms him all the way through like he’s got a hundred thousand tiny candles fluttering all inside him.

Evan had been right in his assumption that Connor would be asleep by now. He looks long gone, breathing these tiny, shallow breaths in and out through lazily parted lips. 

But the first notable thing is that Connor is curled up on Evan’s side of the bed; on Evan’s pillow. He’s not all star-fished out, not sprawled across the mattress like he’s been tossing and turning and just happened to end up there. He’s lying on his side with his knees drawn up towards his chest, in a way that looks like he very deliberately  _ chose  _ to sleep on Evan’s side.

Like he was trying to be close to him.

But apparently, this was not enough.

Because Connor is also wearing one of Evan’s hoodies.

It’s a dark forest green one, particularly warm and comfy, and a size too big for Evan which means it accommodates Connor’s long limbs perfectly while hanging big and bulky over his stomach. Connor’s got one wrist up near his face, with his pierced nose pressed into the sleeve, like he’d fallen asleep breathing Evan in. 

And...apparently  _ this  _ was not enough either.

Because there’s something held tightly in Connor’s arms that, upon closer inspection, Evan determines to be...a  _ second  _ hoodie. He’s got it all bundled up, the fabric held in a loose grip between limp, sleepy fingers. Like a security blanket, protective and possessive, with the distinct impression of  _ mine _ .

It somehow both breaks Evan’s heart and pieces it back together, the way Connor’s sought to find  _ some  _ sort of substitute for Evan’s presence as he tries to rest. It only reminds him of how desperately lonely Connor is without him, on these nights where Evan’s exhausted and overworked and just struggling to stay afloat. It reminds him of his  _ own  _ loneliness, the fact that he’s standing  _ outside  _ of the bed, watching Connor, rather than curled up with him  _ in  _ it.

And it sucks, but.

But a selfish, egotistic part of him can’t help but say,  _ look. _

_ Look at how much this boy loves you. _

Evan’s not sure, in this moment, how he has ever, ever doubted it.

The bit that  _ really  _ gets Evan, though, is the source of the light.

It’s not a candle, like Evan had first thought. It’s Connor’s laptop, open on the nightstand with the screen dimmed and the volume down so low that Evan can just barely make out the thrum of familiar voices. It’s an episode of this mockumentary series on Netflix that he and Connor have been watching together, and Evan immediately recognizes it as season one; an episode they’ve already seen. 

Evan knows, because it’s one of his favorite shows.

And god, it’s almost too much; the show and the hoodies and Evan’s side of the bed, and for the second time in one night Evan feels like he might cry, and his heart feels so full but his arms feel so,  _ so  _ empty, and he just. He needs to peel that fucking hoodie out of Connor’s arms and crawl right in and never leave. He  _ aches  _ with the need to.

He considers waking Connor so he can reclaim his side of the bed, or shutting down the laptop, but decides against it, not wanting to disturb Connor when he’s found such a rare moment of peace. He slips quietly to Connor’s side instead, settling in under the covers with as little movement as possible. Connor stirs anyway, like all the wiring under his skin is just attuned to know when Evan's near, sending an electrical impulse straight to his brain and prodding him awake; Evan Alert. He rolls his head to look over his shoulder, squinty-eyed in the dim light, and immediately smiles the cutest little smile. 

"Ev," he murmurs. Just that. Ev. 

"Hey," Evan whispers back, afraid to make too much noise and brush Connor's lovely sleepiness away. "It's okay, go back to sleep."

Connor shuffles to face Evan, and goes to reach for him when he realizes his arms are already full. His cheeks darken a little, and he shoves the hoodie aside like he's embarrassed about it, like he's been caught red-handed. Evan laughs softly, because he can't help it, and Connor mutters "Whatever," as he wriggles forward and buries his face in Evan's chest.

“Did you finish your thing?” Connor mumbles, slurring his words a little.

“No,” Evan admits, hands automatically working their way into Connor’s hair. “Some guy called Chris doesn’t know what punctuation is. He ruined my night.”

“Fuck you, Chris,” Connor says agreeably, letting out a happy breath as Evan drags his nails against the back of his neck.

It’s almost silent for a while; just the low hum of dialogue still coming from Connor’s laptop. 

“Missed you,” says Connor, out of nowhere. It’s quiet and small. “Been missing you a lot lately.”

“I know,” says Evan softly, and he wants to apologize but he knows Connor would tell him off because he’s not supposed to be saying sorry about things that aren’t his fault. “I know. The past few weeks have been...really shit.”

“Mm,” says Connor.

He scoots forward even more, almost pushing Evan backwards off the bed in his endeavor to be as close as possible. He shoves his face in Evan’s neck in a way that’s downright violent, and it makes Evan giggle. 

“How long till Christmas break?” Connor mumbles, each word dragging against Evan’s collarbone. 

“Twenty-two days, including weekends,” says Evan promptly, because he’s been counting down practically since the start of the semester.

“Mm,” says Connor again. “You should fuck me like, five times a day when break starts. Or just for the entirety of break without even stopping.”

Evan almost chokes on his own spit; he coughs hard, then breaks down into quiet laughter, even as he feels his face heating uncontrollably.

“Even on Christmas with your family?”

" _ Especially  _ on Christmas with my family," says Connor, snickering. “Right on the dinner table.” 

"I think your dad might actually disown you, if he um. Saw something like...like  _ that.” _

“A true Christmas miracle,” says Connor longingly, and Evan starts giggling all over again. 

Connor lets out a sigh, and Evan might almost mistake it to be one of contentment, but there’s something almost a little  _ irritated _ in how quickly the breath leaves him. He shifts, throwing a leg over Evan’s hip and hooking it around his butt, wraps his top arm around Evan’s waist. Then sighs again, and yeah, it’s definitely an irritated sigh, and Evan feels the automatic  _ sorry _ scorching the roof of his mouth, though he’s not entirely sure what he’s done wrong. 

And then Connor’s bottom arm, the one he’s been sort of laying on, starts to wiggle it’s way underneath Evan’s torso, trapped between Evan and the mattress, scrabbling forward and forward and forward until Connor’s kind of got Evan trapped in a not-very-comfortable bear-hug. 

“Ow,” says Evan, at the exact time Connor huffs, “You’re not  _ close  _ enough.”

Connor is practically crazy-glued to him, but weirdly enough Evan completely gets what he means.

“Hang on,” Connor mutters, and then he’s pulling back and peeling off Evan’s hoodie, as well as the threadbare T-shirt underneath it, and Evan protests softly ( _ “You’ll be freezing--” _ ) and then Connor’s tugging at the hem of Evan’s shirt in a silent request to remove it, and Evan grits his teeth against the cold and shrugs the shirt off.

And then Connor’s curling up back against Evan’s chest and letting out yet another sigh but it’s of relief this time, like Connor’s finally satisfied, like he’s solved a puzzle he’s spent hours trying to figure out. Warm bare skin on warm bare skin; not even sexual, not really, and somehow the most wonderful thing in the world. 

Like being reconnected with a lost limb. A reset. A reunion. 

Evan sighs, too.

“S’better,” Connor says drowsily. “No gaps.”

“There’s always a gap,” Evan reminds him gently, affectionately, stroking Connor’s bare back. “Touch isn’t real.”

“Wow, throwback,” Connor slurs. “You’re still wrong, by the way.”

“Look it up,” says Evan, without malice. He kisses the top of Connor’s head.

“Nah,” says Connor.

They stay like that, on the wrong sides of the bed, shirtless and tangled together under blankets piled high, Connor’s laptop still flickering away quietly. Connor’s breathing begins to even out, slow and steady and barely-there, and his tight grip on Evan gradually slackens to dead weight. Evan is tireder than tired, and his eyes hurt and his brain hurts and he wants so badly to sleep, but he forces himself to stay awake for as long as he can, just so he can feel Connor drift off in his arms, so he watch Connor’s eyes shift beneath closed lids as he dreams, to relish every fucking second they’re together. He wants to savor every moment and record each one and back it up like a file on a computer. To keep each one of Connor’s exhales, keep every single one of his little dream-mumbles, to save them up for the next time they’re apart, but he knows he can’t.

Evan’s never been all that good at being present; his brain constantly either weaving together the anxious threads of a million possible dreadful futures, or replaying a dreadful, unchangeable past. 

But he has this  _ now.  _ He has warmth and closeness and comfort right  _ now _ . And that is the main thing.

Connor’s laptop screen pulls up an ‘Are you still watching?’ message. Evan ignores it. It slides away, just like Chris From Iowa, and the rent that’s due in a week, and Evan’s presentation that he hasn’t finished yet. 

“Love you,” he whispers to Connor, who’s well and truly lost to sleep and does not reply. He doesn’t need to; Evan can feel it in the weight in his arms, the face in his neck, the pillow under his head that does not belong to him.

And Evan falls asleep with the distinct impression of having all his limbs firmly attached. 

  
  


  
  



End file.
